I’m sorry, Max.
Your birthday was over a month ago and I’m just now mentioning it on this chronicle of my thoughts.
Which is not to say that I didn’t think of it. Quite the contrary.
For eleven years, I’ve thought of you every day. It’s inescapable, really.
My firstborn. My son. It’s all very poetic.
Except lately it’s been quite obvious that you’re growing up – turning into a teenager, exerting your own brand of independence, testing waters and boundaries.
All in all, you’ve been kind of an asshole.
I know, it’s your birthday post and I shouldn’t say that – but let me expound. You are your own person. You are so like both of your parents that we are often blown away, but at the same time you’re so foreign and strange to us that we wonder what we’re doing wrong.
But then we realize that without a safe place to be an asshole, things could get kind of bad for you. For anyone, really.
Because that’s what family is. What home is. A place to let go and be awful and be unbearable and to know without a doubt that everyone there will let you be you. And love you no matter.
We do, so much.
You’ve grown so much in the past year. Your sisters adore you, even though they won’t admit it.
Your dad…you’re just like him.
Josh…I don’t know what he’d do without you to infuriate.
And me? You drive me crazy. Crazier than I already am. And I am, at the same time, simply amazed by you.
Amazed that I had any part in producing you.
Amazed that I get to know you.
Amazed that I get to see where this goes.
I love you. You are a stressful, grating, mindbendingly wonderful person. I wouldn’t change a thing.